


Japonisme (the Cancan Remix)

by diefleder_tey



Category: Kanjani8 (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diefleder_tey/pseuds/diefleder_tey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The onnagata's role is to provide a complete illusion, off and on stage - in the waning days of <i>kabuki</i>, Ohkura Tadayoshi wanders in and out of the fantasy, like passing gallery paintings on the wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Japonisme (the Cancan Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [French Cancan](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/19866) by yue_akuma. 



> Remix for jentfic-remix's Cycle 10. Takes place in Japan during the early stages of the Meiji period when Japan's ports were open to global trade and _kabuki_ was past its original heyday. If you're not familiar with either the practices and roles of _onnagata_ (or the art movement Japonisme) both are worth a google. (Other members of K8 either cameo or are mentioned.)

 

When Tadayoshi was on stage, sometimes the light around him was so bright that everything else seemed vibrant and shapeless – worn out costumes suddenly as colorful as they were once supposed to be. He couldn't see his marks and he couldn't see the end of the stage, but he had his movements memorized so well that hardly any conscious thought was required. He stood knees together, slightly bent to lower his frame from its full and all too obvious height, and he kept his arms in close, wrists carefully turned. In part, movement of the dance - the right angles signaled a sense of grace. It happened to hide his larger hands, too. When he could, he kept his chin down to draw attention away from his neck and the protruding adam's apple that ruined the illusion. His steps were small and his smile soft. In bright light, he was a painting, all color and lines of makeup and costume; and like any painting, the closer one got, the more strokes they saw that betrayed the human behind the art.

In bright light, it was easy to forget that their theater was drab and run down and that, outside of the national troupe, _kabuki_ was all but dead. The show would end and the spotlight cut. Tadayoshi's eyes would readjust to the grey and browns of the peeling walls and worn seats. He would retain his posture even though the act was supposed to end with the play, his smile still soft – the same smile he had seen his mother use every day of her life. It wouldn't take long to scan the seats and find the person who had noticed, the one man with attentive eyes, smiling back.

A hundred years ago, maybe he would have been a star, a legitimately legendary _onnagata_ , one of the actors who portrayed women better than any woman supposedly could. A hundred years ago, he wouldn't have been old fashioned and an oddity to the rest of the world. He wouldn't have been a curiosity in his profession and on his stage.

But he couldn't change the frame or oils his life had been painted in no matter what clothes he wore or what makeup he selected – no more than any still life could ask for better scenery. It was okay by him – neither fame nor art were the real reasons for his everyday act. His profession was dying daily but for the time being it kept Tadayoshi alive. It didn't matter if the show only brought in a handful of people – as long as it brought in at least one man who would make his way to the back, inquiring about access to the dressing rooms.

The hallway from the stage sometimes leaked from the thin roof, drops of rain staining down the sides, catching the light from the candles that lined the way. Someone had purchased a cheap woodblock print – a gruesome one of a prostitute standing next to an old ghost covered in sores. When it had first appeared, he'd always looked as he walked by, mimicking under his sleeve the way the prostitute held her hand – flipped up and delicately holding the edge of her flower covered kimono as it slipped down her shoulder. Now, it was almost completely washed out from the humidity, leaving only outlines. Tadayoshi sometimes shuddered at it uncontrollably – one day the ghost and the girl would be indistinguishable from one another.

Many of the actors shared the same room, using curtains to separate themselves when patrons came sniffing around. The one next to his space was pulled to; his friend, another actor – another _onnagata_ – was already attending to a regular. Tadayoshi quickly removed his wig to take off his makeup, pulling a damp cloth down his face. Streak by streak the white disappeared to the freckles underneath as he half-listened to their conversation.

_" –they're wearing in Paris now."_

_"Pa-paris?"_

_"Mm-hmm. Yasu's been there! He taught me this song he learned while he was there…I, I don't remember any of the words though."_ The other actor started humming, the melody slipping through the thick air like a breeze.

The patron sounded annoyed. _"Maybe I should go home then, I've never been to Paris."_

Tadayoshi had finished pulling the cloth down his neck when a slight knock came from the door frame – there stood a short man with round eyes and a suggestive smile. He had been in the fourth row and caught Tadayoshi's glance the minute the lights dropped. He hadn't asked anyone how to get back to the dressing rooms – he had been there once before.

Tadayoshi rose to greet him and the man quickly glanced over to the table where his wig lay, nodding at it. He didn't have to say anything, his posture and smile telling enough: _put that back on_. Tadayoshi obliged; he loosened the kimono until it barely hung closed on his body, the top falling off of his shoulder as he had learned from the woodblock print. When he was ready, almost the same image that had stood on the stage earlier – now simply exposed and accessible – he drew the small curtain, closing off his part of the dressing room.

The man wasted no time setting his hat aside – a foreign hat, one of the outdated styles fashionable men had once rushed to buy when new influences first flooded into the country. Tadayoshi rested back against the table, taking away the height difference, and slowly moved his hand down the line of the front of his kimono, pulling the side back.

 _"Maybe we can go some day,"_ floated across the room from the other side.

Tadayoshi looked up at the ceiling as his patron slid his fingers underneath the material, forging through until they found the warmth of Tadayoshi's thigh.

_"They have these things called cafes there, and caba- cabarets, I think they're called?"_

He had cast the cleaning cloth to the side too carelessly earlier, leaving it on the table where his hand now pushed up against it as he slid further and further down to give more access to his exposed neck. "What's your name?" he quietly asked. Tadayoshi knew better. The man didn't answer – he busied his mouth with caressing the naked clavicle with his lips and moved his hand close enough that blood started to rush to Tadayoshi's groin in anticipation.

 _"It was something like- uhn-"_ The humming started again, the song from France interrupted by small soft murmurs that increased in size and frequency from the other side.

Tadayoshi spread his legs a little further, letting a soft moan of his own out – partially out of obligation and partially from pure reaction to the feeling of skin on his skin. The ceiling was drab and damp looking – like the washcloth he had just used – with a hole over by the door frame, light peeking through. Sometimes he paid attention to what was happening, sometimes enjoying the experience. Other times he stared at the hole in the ceiling and wondered how it would feel if the roof blew off, then and there, bathing them all in the sun. He kept one hand behind him to brace himself and with the other reached out, as if to caress the man's head. But with four fingers interwoven with his hair, he kept his index finger pointing at the hole, pretending to scratch away at it.

_"Something, something like, caresse-moi? Mwa? M-uhn-"_

The hole crumbled away until the roof was opened wide, like gates - the song from France billowing out into the clouds and running through the sky until it condensed into a single strand, curling and running into the outline of a chair. Tadayoshi sat at one of the tables, leaning over as he took another sip of his drink, his gloved hands perfectly positioned. It didn't go unnoticed. A man was soon standing next to him, with a smile that at once was both frightening and laced with charm.

"Can I join you?" he asked.

Tadayoshi nodded and reached down to pull the side of his skirt up – his billowing skirt, like those he had seen in pictures scattered about the dressing room whenever Yasu was in town – exposing part of his calf in order to cross one leg over the other. It was deliberate. If the man was interested, it was a signal to proceed.

He sat down on the other side of the table, making a motion to order a drink. "I just wanted to talk," he said.

Tadayoshi adjusted his skirt again – that's all it had been. An adjustment.

A waiter brought over red wine and the man poured a glass for each. The red-purple hue was lost against the color of his waistcoat, which in itself stood out against the yellow walls. He took a sip and then smiled, completely relaxed. "It's really good!" Between them lay a fan, folded up and placed there when Tadayoshi had taken his seat. The other man grabbed it and started to wave it back and forth, cooling himself down. He made some sort of noise of disgust. "It's hot, don't you think?"

Tadayoshi knew he was supposed to modestly deny it, only shaking his head no despite the fact that sweat was starting to form under the wig, threatening to roll down and push through the rouge on his cheek.

"It's okay," the other said, still slightly irritated tone. "You can tell the truth."

Tadayoshi let out a sigh. He uncrossed his legs, spreading them slightly apart underneath the heavy skirt. "It's miserable."

"See."

He took up his glass and hesitated, not actually sure what wine tasted like. With the edge against his lip, glass pressing into it, he asked, "What's your name?"

"Murakami," the other replied.

Before the wine could slide down the sides and into his mouth, he felt something pulling at his chin. Pressing and dragging down his view until the bright colors of an afternoon drink rolled over into the drab ceiling and finally into the round eyes of the patron, staring at him flatly.

"Hmm?" Tadayoshi said before thinking.

The patron pushed his chin down even further until his neck was hidden from view, the adam's apple obscured. "There," he somewhat grunted out, satisfactorily, continuing where he left off once he was sure that Tadayoshi would stay that way.

The angle forced him to look upwards just to see what was going on – a coquettish look that quickly disarmed any sneers he might have been working up on his lip. It was a look he was familiar with - it was the one that most preferred. Tadayoshi should have known better.

_"Next week?"_

_"Yeah."_ There was a pause before the voice next door turned from agreeable to bitter complaint. _"And stop talking about France and other people!"_

A hundred years ago, no one in his profession would have dared to leave the theater in anything but complete costume. An _onnagata_ didn't just act – he lived his part. Very few did anymore, some even taking multiple roles to fill whatever holes were in the decimated casts. A few of Tadayoshi's coworkers left their mannerisms with their wigs in the dressing room.

Tadayoshi used his days off to walk to the shops. He had originally started doing it to watch mothers and daughters buying goods, paying attention to how they clopped down the street in their _geta_ , how they hid their smiles behind hands when they bought treats from a street vendor – the change in intonation when talking to different men. He tried to go to different parts of the city, watching closely as he pretended to picnic on a bridge or look at produce. At first he only ever went out in his regular clothes, sometimes very subtly copying an action there in the street instead of going back to the theater later to practice. Only a few times did he venture out in full costume, and then as the sun set - makeup less dramatic, the posture still the same.

"Have you ever been there?"

In his regular clothes, he tried to stand a little straighter, shoulders a little wider. He pretended not to look at the group of girls gathered in front of the new place - a small restaurant, a cafe they called it. Just like in France. The three girls were excitedly discussing the desserts offered, how romantic and exotic they seemed. Tadayoshi's friend Yasu had once tried to kindly explain that the authenticity there was a bit lacking. Tadayoshi himself had no way of knowing.

"I heard they serve parfaits!"

"What's that?"

"I wish someone would take me there."

He paused slightly in front of the open door, peering in. It was empty, save a man sitting at a table in the far corner. Tadayoshi turned his head and continued down the street. A block away, a considerably less crowded part of town, he quietly tried to adjust the pitch of his voice as he parroted, "I heard they serve parfaits!"

That night no one seemed interested in his performance, but someone was waiting for him anyway - someone who had come around several times before and was more than a little brazen. By the time Tadayoshi returned to the dressing room, he was already in the corner, untying his obi belt and looking at a new woodblock print somebody had pinned onto the wall. This one was slightly more pornographic. By his smile Tadayoshi could tell that the regular approved. It wouldn't have surprised him if the patron had been the one to place it there himself.

"Oh," the other said. "You're finally here." He grabbed the curtain and tugged it over. "Hurry up."

With some men, Tadayoshi would ask questions, put them at ease if they were nervous or simply ask if there was anything else he could offer. Happy customers were repeat customers. With this one, he never bothered. Instead of cleaning up and inviting him in, Tadayoshi simply took a moment to remove his underwear and loosen the belts on his own kimono before sliding forward on his table - leaning all of his weight on it and opening his stance. It was how this one wanted it. Even if Tadayoshi asked him something in his most practiced tone - soft, lilting, all of the depth of his natural voice squeezed until it came out in a higher register - he'd be met with a whining sneer about how distracting it was.

The patron smacked his hands onto either side of Tadayoshi's hips, moving him around until he aligned perfectly with the shorter man. He lifted the skirts of Tadayoshi's clothes, pulling them up and pushing them unto his back. "Where's the-?"

Tadayoshi leaned all of his weight onto his left arm so he could point to the end of the table with his right. At the corner was a blue ceramic pot with a lid, tucked away.

"Oh," the patron said, reaching over and grabbing it while tapping his hand against Tadayoshi's left exposed cheek. "Right."

Tadayoshi turned his attention back to what was in front of him with a sigh. He heard the clink of the ceramic top being placed down on the table, the scraping of the bottom of the pot as it scooted along when the patron tried to pull its viscous contents out with his fingers.

The new woodblock print was in better condition than the one in the hall - not yet eaten away by climate and age. A man and a woman - she on her back with her kimono open, her body exposed. The way she was positioned, with her arm over her head and her leg curled behind, was reminiscent of the curve of a stream. Or the stroke of a pen.

The patron audibly relaxed, letting out the day's frustration and impatience in one long yelling sigh before grabbing on tightly with his left hand, driving his thumb hard into the cheek.

Tadayoshi's eyes followed the stream of the open woman before him, only half aware of his own thoughts about how rough the skin on that hand felt.

The skirt wrapped around her curled leg and dribbled off of the page, flowing down the wall and onto the floor until their ruffles crawled up his own shins, lay in his lap and wrapped themselves around his waist - bright green waves with edges of thick black. The hand in his was rough - the years of hard work evident on every finger. Tadayoshi smiled and let go.

"Strong, huh?" Murakami said, proudly.

Tadayoshi nodded and picked up his glass. They were close to finishing off their third bottle and the most the gentleman across from him had asked for was the chance to show off how well he had learned to shake hands.

"Ah," Murakami said, a quick outburst at remembering. "That's not how I'm supposed to do it, is it?" He held out his hand again, this time with the palm up. "Come on," he pressed.

Tadayoshi extended his own, but bent it at a strange angle so that all of his fingers appeared in a flat row. Murakami grabbed it and then leaned over to kiss the skin. Tadayoshi almost pulled back, a panicked need to grab his glove and put it on as he felt the tiny hairs on his hand move under Murakami's lips.

"That's the way they do it here, right?" he asked, a smile before letting go. "What's your name?"

"Tadako," he quickly answered, the name he always passed around when men dared to ask. He turned his head as the familiar line of a song played out in the background.

Murakami slumped back in his seat and grumbled. "No, your real name."

"My real-?" Tadayoshi inadvertently reached up to his hair, making sure that the wig was still in place, that the curls hadn't fallen away somewhere between bottles two and three. He trailed his hand down the side of his face until his neck, where he tried to gracefully put it in front of his throat. His fingers rested on his adam's apple, which Murakami surely would have seen at any time during the night as they talked and laughed. "Tadayoshi," he finally answered.

Murakami nodded. "It's a good name."

Tadayoshi paused, taking in the response. "Would you like to go somewhere more comfortable?" He stood and held out his hand.

"Sure."

The floor was wooden, the slats laid in ways that never quite lined up. As he walked to the stairs, Tadayoshi felt the effects of the wine, his perception skewed so that all the steps seemed to be on the same plane. He stumbled at the first, scraping his chest over the bannister. It wasn't like him to be this sloppy.

As he rubbed the sore spot, pressing on his sternum that burned with the pain of forced friction, Murakami came to his side, taking one arm over his shoulder, laughing. Tadayoshi turned his head to hide his own annoyance at the stumble. It quickly dissipated - there was something infectious about how Murakami reacted.

"You're kind of clumsy," he remarked, giving Tadayoshi a shove in the arm.

"It's the shoes," he replied without thinking.

Murakami nodded. "Let's take them off."

Tadayoshi continued up the stairs and led him down the hallway, opening a door on his left.

"Hang on, I'll go get more wine," Murakami said.

"You're not going to-" It was too late, he had already started back down - taking the stairs in hops, a steady rhythm of left, right, pause. Left, right, pause. Tadayoshi felt his hands clench in time with his pace. Left, right, pause.

He winced as the ache in his sternum came back, this time with a thunderous clap. "Ow."

He immediately reached around to rub the soreness of his left cheek, the warm lingering print of his patron's smack still outlined on the bare and freckled flesh. He had scooted further up on the table, his nose almost stuck in the breasts of the woman in the print. The folds of the skirt of his kimono fell down as he stood up, slowly and gingerly. He didn't bother to pull the front closed as he turned to look at the other.

The patron was retying his belt, chewing on his lip in a satisfied half-smile. He inhaled sharply through his nose and awkwardly left with a, "Well...," not pulling the curtain back behind him as he walked away.

Tadayoshi found the money next to the little ceramic pot on the table. The lid had been left off to the side, in danger of falling as the table had moved. He had to wipe the side of it off where the patron had carelessly smeared his fingers over the rim. When he was finished, he winced and then reached up to pull off his wig - it was time to wipe off the makeup callously smeared on his face.

He heard a familiar song floating into the room as one of the other _onnagata_ came in. Tadayoshi shifted his stance slightly, turning his hips away and pressing into the table. He was getting too used to that song. It seemed to be all Maru sung lately - there wasn't a night that he hadn't heard it in the halls of the their theater.

Tadayoshi paused, the cloth halfway down his cheek, remembering that Maru hadn't been in for the last several nights at all.

He didn't show up the next night either - though his favorite customer did, stumbling into the dressing room with pouty lips and an air of sake about him. "Where's Maru?" he asked.

Tadayoshi honestly didn't know.

The patron sat down on the floor in a huff, jutting his chin out as he slurred over his words. "I'm getting married tomorrow, he should know that!" He turned his gaze from the floor to the man before him, following the length of his leg up to his long arms and neck, as Tadayoshi looked in a small hand-held mirror at his face. "You have kind of a pointy nose, don't you?"

Instinct and training kicked in; instead of shooting him a look, Tadayoshi closed his eyes and politely smiled.

Soon the man was next to him, peering over to stare at him, leaning in closer and closer until the air was nothing but the smell of sake. "Well if Maru doesn't work here anymore," he started.

Tadayoshi looked down and saw money clasped in the other's hand. He took a moment to clear his throat to the side.

The man reached over with his long, slender fingers and moved the tips across Tadayoshi's full lower lip, pulling it to the side like a smudge in a painting. Tadayoshi caught them with a kiss, pursing his lips to receive them - kissing once, twice, before delicately wrapping his fingers around the other's hand to hold it in place as he brought the ring finger into his mouth, rubbing it across his teeth and over the bite before closing his lips around the skin and tracing the tip with his tongue.

That close, Tadayoshi could smell something else pushing through the drunkenness - another scent that caused him to see the world in splatters of purple and green; shapes that, seen too closely, had no context.

Lavender. He was sure it was lavender.

"Oh?" Murakami leaned back and put his forearm to his nose, taking a deep breath. "I guess? I don't know flowers very well."

They were both on a red couch, a couch long enough to comfortably seat many. But they were pushed to one side, unbalancing the scene.

"It's definitely a lavender perfume," Tadayoshi replied. He'd know that scent anywhere.

"You're sure?" Murakami laughed. He moved his arm so he could hold it out again, accidentally getting too close and bumping the wig.

Tadayoshi leaned forward to take in the scent again while reaching up to adjust his hair without thinking. It was second nature. Maybe even first, at this point.

"You don't need that."

"Hmm?" Tadayoshi asked, looking up.

"The wig, you don't need that," Murakami answered, giving it a look. "Here." He started to reach for it without waiting for permission.

"Hang on, there are pins-"

"See? That's better," Murakami said, leaning back on the couch and putting the wig to the side.

Tadayoshi wasn't so sure. He had to pull off a small cap and shake out his real hair, flattened by all the time under the heavy curls. He had long abandoned the dress, the shoes, sitting instead on the couch in his undergarments. Murakami had taken off his coat and Tadayoshi kept expecting it to come - expecting the friendly hand that Murakami placed on his thigh to move ever inward. For Murakami to mold his position, to push him into whatever shape he desired. For the wad of money to come out.

But he kept talking. And talking - telling Tadayoshi about his family and asking questions in turn. Tadayoshi spoke more and more, paying less attention to how he said things and more to what he said. When Murakami told a joke he didn't turn his head to hide behind a demure hand; he let out a full-bodied, deep laugh that shook his whole body.

Murakami laid his hand on Tadayoshi's shoulder and it felt heavy, landing almost with a thud. He moved in closer, with no hesitation, until he met the other's lips with a kiss, a hand gently holding his face. Murakami pulled himself away and stood, going for his coat.

"You don't want to-," Tadayoshi started, almost taken aback by the baritone of his natural voice.

"Hm," Murakami answered. "Maybe next time." He leaned in again before leaving, giving a smirk. "Maybe not." He couldn't hold the expression for long and reverted back to his full smile before giving one more quick peck on Tadayoshi's cheek. "Maybe next time, dinner."

"Murakami-san..."

He scrunched up his face. "Shingo. My name is Shingo."

The sunlight poured into the room, washing out the shape of his body as he turned to leave and Tadayoshi could feel the lavender leaving with him. He blinked and against his shoulder was the heavy head of Maru's favorite patron - passed out, mouth agape, and calling for his lover in his sleep. Tadayoshi gently pushed his face away to the side, letting him continue to sleep on the floor where they sat. "Maybe you should wait here," he said, quietly.

When he finally did see Maru again, the other was somewhat sheepish in his confession. "That new place was hiring - you know, the one like a cafe?"

He knew. Tadayoshi was skeptical that it would pay any better, but they all had their reasons for belonging to the theater. Some truly believed in the art of _kabuki_ still, no matter how ragged and outdated it became. Some saw donning the wigs as a chance to live out different lives on stage. He saw it as the only way to truly get what he wanted. Tadayoshi realized he had never asked Maru why he had joined the theater as an _onnagata_ before. He resolved to ask the next time he saw him outside of work.

"Maybe they could hire you too?" Maru suggested.

Tadayoshi had two kimonos. One had come with the job, his only outfit to portray a number of roles. In the legitimate theater he would have had many, flashier and brighter ones. This one had faded with time to the point that the pattern seemed like a run of pastels every time he shuffled up to the stage to take his place behind the curtain. The other he had from his mother - his mother who had had only sons - promising to one day give it to a wife he never intended to have. He stored it away safely and only brought it out on the rare days he ventured into town during the setting of the sun.

He could have sworn that it was black with little white and blue flowers and round green leaves. But when he pulled it out again, the light shining brightly through the small hole in the roof, the flowers and leaves were gone - replaced instead by simple shapes and dots. He stood dumbfounded for a moment at the mistake. He was certain it had always been flowers.

With the sun still out, he pinned his wig in place and finished his makeup. Instead of wandering around town, he went straight for the cafe, stepping inside and walking to the counter.

"Ah, Tadako," the owner said.

Tadayoshi bent his knees and bowed his head, giving a soft smile.

"Would you like to try one of our new drinks?"

"Not today," he replied. He pointed to a confection instead, some sort of small cake sitting on the counter.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the edge of a table, a man sitting there with a book in hand. He was wearing western clothing, a dark vest that looked almost purple in the right light. He was practicing speaking and shaking. "Hello, my name is Shingo Murakami," he said in English, oblivious to how loud it was. He made a face, still unconvinced that he had the pronunciation right, despite weeks of practice.

"Here you go," the owner said, handing over a box.

Tadayoshi quickly paid and turned to leave. As he passed the table he glanced over and saw that the man had several books in front of him. Several books, and a woodblock print he had just purchased that morning. He made the mistake of looking up, catching the man's eyes.

Murakami smiled.

Tadayoshi couldn't help but smile back - wide, skin crinkling and politeness replaced by something genuine and full.

Murakami opened his mouth to say something and before he could utter a sound, Tadayoshi gave a slight nod and backed out of the cafe door. Maybe next time.

The sun started to set on his walk home and the town swam in golden yellows and reds, only the basic outlines of the buildings shining through the haze. When Tadayoshi was on stage, sometimes the light around him was so bright that everything else seemed vibrant and shapeless - and sometimes all the world was his stage. In one hand he carried the box from the cafe. The other he held out to his side, almost as if it were clasped onto another's. The next time, maybe he would stay. Maybe he would order a drink and sit at the next table, hands purposely placed and legs perfectly crossed. Maybe the next time he would make a comment first, ask about a book or some art or compliment the style of the waistcoat - ask his opinion about the print of his dress. And maybe, the next time Tadayoshi would let the other man ask his name. His real name.  



End file.
